A Most Murderous Case
by Delenn
Summary: "When Sherlock Holmes murdered one Irene Adler [...] it was truly brilliant." Not quiet as it appears.


**Disclaimer: Too many brilliant people own these characters to name. I'm just playing with the BBC's versions. I promise to return them when I'm done.**

**Rating: PG-13**

**Summary: "**When Sherlock Holmes murdered one Irene Adler [...] it was truly brilliant."

**Author's Notes: I am going to fill in the gap on Sherlock's plan, but it ended up evolving into a separate fic (I know, another WIP, just what I needed). That will come along shortly. In the meantime, have Irene giving Anderson a heart-attack. You're welcome.**

* * *

**A Most Murderous Case**

When Sherlock Holmes murdered one Irene Adler, thereby saving her life, it was truly brilliant. Months of planning, an airtight alibi covering his movements and a flawless new identity for Miss Adler were just some of the intricacies that he had painstakingly orchestrated. Which was why it galled him beyond all measure that the only people who knew about it were Irene and himself.

Still, Sherlock had resigned himself (at least seventy-five percent, given a margin of error for vacillation) to the inevitable. "Irene Adler" was dead and needed to stay that way – that was the whole point – and he would have to content himself with the knowledge that everyone else had been fooled so completely.

Thus, when the opportunity presented itself to bring Irene back to life (concurrent with his own resurrection), Sherlock studiously analyzed the problem from all angles before moving forward.

The look on Mycroft's face was more than worth the inconvenience of having to wait the better part of three years to reveal his brilliance.

...

John took both resurrections about as well as could be expected, considering. Sherlock decided that in the wake of his own feigned suicide and subsequent two year disappearance, the presence of Irene Adler at his side was a relatively minor detail in the doctor's eyes.

So, when Sherlock stoically helped Irene into her coat before donning his own, he was rather surprised to be stopped by John's hand on his arm. "Sherlock, don't you think this is rubbing Mycroft's face in it a bit much?"

Sherlock blinked. As usual, tried to get John to see reason. "It's not as if we're going to show up on his doorstep. Besides, Mycroft can never be knocked down too many pegs."

Sherlock pulled his arm free and John backed up a step, hands up in a placating (and clearly sarcastic) manner. "Right. Of course. Don't know why I bothered."

...

Which is how Sherlock Holmes found himself striding into New Scotland Yard with Irene Adler matching him stride for stride, despite her ridiculous heels. If Sherlock found himself slowing the speed of said strides ever so slightly to compensate for said heels, it was entirely irrelevant.

Thankfully, as with most things, Irene more than kept up, shooting him an amused eyebrow to clearly indicate that she had noticed his slight change in pace. He was getting much better at reading her. She was _wrong_, but still. Sherlock lengthened his stride determinedly.

No matter - there was a case to be investigated. _Finally_. He'd managed a whole 47.29 hours since the last one. Sherlock could only let himself be concerned with the everyday trivialities of things that weren't the crime scene for so long.

His death and resurrection had only minimally impacted his customary arrival at the scene. Sally greeted him with a, "Hmmph." Barely biting back the instinctive _Freak_ due to the overlaying guilt she felt over his "suicide". Instead, she spun on her heel and called for Lestrade.

It was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to tell her that she needn't have bothered. He was hardly concerned with social pleasantries and, whether she spoke aloud or not, he could hear her derogatory comments just the same. She was utterly boring with guilt lambasting her malice.

Anderson, on the other hand, was bothered by neither the common morals nor basic intellect of others, and thus was not troubled by things like guilt. It had been clear in the manner of his casual (and inevitably messy) affair with Sally and it was clear in the way he sneered at Sherlock, "Don't contaminate the crime scene!"

Sherlock was just opening his mouth to inquire just whom, exactly, Anderson thought his wife spent so many weekends visiting out of town, when Anderson's eyes began to bug out of his pallid, wide face.

It was a most disconcerting picture. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, followed Anderson's line of sight, found no murders being actively committed (boring), and returned to the puzzle of Anderson's seemingly rapidly accelerated impending heart attack.

In the meantime, Anderson's innate suspicion had finally overpowered his shock. "Who is that?"

Ah. Of course. Irene had caught up with them, a wry smile on her face. Sherlock felt his own lips quirking up into a lopsided smirk. She did look lovely. Clearly, her brisk pace (cause) had slightly elevated her resting pulse and respiration, leaving both her cheeks slightly flushed and her bosom heaving (effect). Given her penchant for attention, he calculated that 21% of the effect was manufactured. His eyes darted between the neckline of her dress and her eyes to confirm. Of course, that had probably been her intent in the first place – to make him look.

Fascinating. And all quite irrelevant to the case at hand. Perhaps John had been right about bringing Irene along (not to imply that John's argument about Mycroft was correct, but perhaps the conclusion that Irene should stay at home was valid, despite the faulty logic underpinning it).

Pulling himself away from the 35 seconds of observation (he always lingered far too long when assessing Irene), Sherlock addressed Anderson (noting that Sally, Lestrade and several irrelevant members of Scotland Yard had turned towards them as well). "Irene Adler. She's with me." He stepped under the crime scene tape and held it for Irene. "Now, where's the body?"

Irene ducked under his arm, far closer than was necessary, and remained infuriatingly silent. Of course, she was more than happy to mock him completely nonverbally. And the worst part was that she was _winning_.

Nobody else moved. Sherlock let his arm drop and resisted the urge to just brush past the so-called inspectors and go find the body himself. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets to further impress how irrelevant this whole exchange was. Finally, Anderson decided to lower the bar of silence by opening his mouth, "What do you mean, she's with you?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" Sherlock bit back, annoyed. Really, did it matter?

Irene took the opportunity to loop her arm through Sherlock's and lean against him. Into the instantly shocked silence, Irene offered, "I'm here to help him get a feel for the case."

Of course, she managed to make the whole thing sound somehow untoward. Sherlock scowled but didn't reclaim his arm. "I don't need your help."

"Then you'll just have to impress me with your detective skills, won't you?"

It was highly doubtful that they were still discussing the case at hand. They matched stares for a moment, until Irene slipped her hand down his arm and into his pocket. Sherlock's eyes darted down at the movement. Irene's grin was triumphant. Sherlock pointedly ignored her hand (more conspicuous to attempt to remove it – would just encourage her) and turned back towards the assembled officers and Anderson. "Miss Adler is filling in for Doctor Watson. Now. The. _Body_."

There was silence for another long moment and Sherlock wondered if this was another of those pesky details that had changed since his return. It was hardly unusual for him to sweep into the crime scene and make strange demands with little explanation. He actually quite enjoyed seeing just how far he could push the detectives before they kicked up a fuss. Admittedly, John usually kept him from anything too _not good_, but could Irene really be that much of a shock? Stupid. Of course she could. But she wasn't doing anything at the moment, besides mocking him. It was frustrating. And still didn't explain why he was expending his considerable brainpower trying to get the entirety of Scotland Yard to stop staring and lead them to the body.

Finally, Lestrade seemed to shake himself out of a stupor, nodding quickly and gesturing vaguely towards Sherlock and Irene with one hand, while the other rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. "Right. This way, Sherlock. Miss Adler. I'm afraid it'll be a bit of a mess."

Irene flashed one of her blinding (and infuriatingly undecipherable) smiles. "Not to worry, Detective Inspector, I've never been afraid of a little mess."

Obvious. Sherlock snorted at the typical tactic. And the more typical reaction, if Lestrade's flustered attempt to look anywhere but at Irene was any indication. Sherlock shifted his hand to grip Irene's in his pocket, laced their fingers together (for expediency's sake only) and started off after Lestrade. He pointedly ignored the brief tightening of Irene's fingers around his, her quick, but genuine smile, and the fact that apparently every member of Scotland Yard on the scene was following along in their wake like lemmings.

**TBC**


End file.
